In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning
by WickedGame
Summary: How quickly can someone insinuate themselves into your life? A bartender and a jazz musician meet one night and answer that question for themselves. 3x4. Request fic for Calamithy.


Title: In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning

Author: WickedGame

Archive: FFnet, AFFnet, MediaMinerorg, anyone else just needs to ask.

Category: Lemon, Yaoi, One-shot, Romance, Shounen Ai, AU

Rating: M or NC-17

Warnings: Lemon, foul language, AU

Spoilers: It's AU…so no. But…check notes.

Notes: This was written for Calamithy, who gave me the plot bunny in hopes I would write another story with Quatre as the way I write him. I do not own Gundam Wing nor the Van Morrison arrangement of "I'm Confessin'". I do not own the Billie Holiday version of "Stormy Weather". The title of this fic comes from an old standard by the same name, which I do not own. The Duo mention in this story comes from Prynesque's story "Ride a Cowboy" which can be found on AFFnet, used with her permission. So, if you have never read that story there is a small bit of spoiler concerning it. This is 3x4. Beta-ed by FantasyOrReality.

In every major metropolis in all the world there has to be at least one run-down jazz club. A place where pretentious youngsters and venerable old people gather to hear an amazing jam session or two on no particularly named night of the week. In this case the major metropolis was San Francisco, California. The night of the week was Sunday, and the time was roughly one in the morning.

In every one of those run-down jazz clubs there has to be at least one tender hearted bartender: one that can shake a mean martini and listen in quiet understanding to all sorts of problems. Sunday's bartender was Quatre Winner. Quatre was the rare sort of bartender. Quatre had no real need to be working at this little jazz club at all, but he found the place entirely too interesting. The bonus was that he has a love of jazz that had been ingrained in him since childhood.

Jazz was music that could stir the heart, the soul, and the loins all at once. Quatre was a violinist himself, and he could play a passable piano. Nothing he had ever played comes even close to the art that the nomadic musicians that came through this club were able to create. He envied them that.

That night's rag tag crew was impressive, as always. Their saxophone player was a genius. The way he blew the curved horn, and the way he caressed the round keys as he played definitely made Quatre wonder what those fingers would feel like on skin, playing him like that saxophone.

As Quatre dried off a beer mug he shook his head, amused with himself. It was better not to dwell on things like that just now. Never mix business with pleasure, you know? Plus, he had a job to do here. Unlike many jobs he had held in the past, Quatre actually enjoyed this job. He had been an accountant, a bank teller, a lifeguard, a security guard, a baker, and a sous chef. None of those jobs had stuck until he had enrolled in bartending school at the behest of his friend Duo.

Duo lived in Australia, and he and Quatre had known each other forever. Duo worked at a trendy nightclub, and had managed to meet the person he called the love of his life there. Quatre spared a smile for his friend. Duo loved his job and had sworn that Quatre would love the work just as much as he did.

Quatre had a philosophy: he never knew what life was going to throw at him next, but he welcomed it with open arms. He was prepared to accept whatever life wanted to hand to him. That was why he never rested on his laurels. He had enough money through inheritance to keep him comfortable for the rest of his life and then some, but he never wanted to sit around and be idle. He wanted to explore the world and all it contained.

Quatre let his hips sway a little as he wiped down more glasses. The gorgeous brunette with the saxophone was singing now, in a soft and sexy voice, "In your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, your eyes. I read such strange things. But your lips deny that they are true. Baby, will your answer really change things? Making me blue…"

His brunette hair was a strange thing: it kind of fanned out over one of his eyes in a weird way, but it made him seem mysterious instead of weird. Quatre couldn't see his eye color, but that did not make him any less interested. He was maybe a couple of inches taller than Quatre, and he was lithe, like a competitive swimmer. Quatre momentarily wondered if the man was a competitive swimmer. He could have been, maybe in college? The guy looked to be the same age as he was.

"Hey, bartender!" a portly gentleman that had been drinking gibsons all night signaled him with a waving bill in the air.

"What can I get you?" Quatre offered the man a smile.

"'Nother one of these," the man gestured to his empty cocktail glass.

"Sure thing," Quatre was not paid to ask why the man had been drinking all night. He usually just waited for them to talk. This man had not offered any information, so Quatre let it go. Quatre poured the ice, gin, and vermouth into the stainless steel shaker. Thirty seconds later Quatre was placing the small cocktail onion into the glass and taking the money from the slightly bald man who had ordered it.

Quatre poured himself a brandy and leaned back on the bar. The man with the saxophone excused himself from the stage and walked towards Quatre, like some graceful dancer.

"What can I get you?" Quatre asked with a flirtatious smile. Granted, he had no clue if this guy was even into guys, but a smile could be interpreted so many ways he did not think it would matter.

"What do you recommend?" Trowa smiled back as he took a seat at the bar. It was forty-five minutes until Quatre would start herding the small amount of people out of the bar and then begin to close up shop. This was the first time this guy had decided to go near the bar.

"Well," Quatre looked the guy up and down, "you don't look like the martini type of guy to me."

"You would be right in that assumption," the man smiled. This close, Quatre could see that man had eyes the color of leaves in the early summer.

"Let me guess, you are a bourbon type of guy. Bourbon neat," Quatre amended.

"Mmm. You're a good guesser," the guy said slowly. Quatre was surprised by the sultry tone in the man's voice. Quatre threw a flirty smile over his shoulder as he turned to grab the bourbon bottle.

"I like bourbon on the rocks myself," Quatre said conversationally.

"Detracts from the taste of the liquor though," the man commented.

"I'm sorry, I never caught your name," Quatre stuck his hand out, "I'm Quatre Winner."

"Trowa Barton. It's nice to meet you, Quatre," the man said as he shook Quatre's hand. Quatre loved the feel of his hand. It was soft, with these tiny calluses on the pads on the fingers that were more than likely caused by the years of pressing the buttons on the saxophone. Quatre felt Trowa's fingers caress his own as he withdrew his hand from the shake, and Quatre smiled shyly, trying not to be obvious about how much he had enjoyed the short contact.

"So, Trowa Barton, you play the saxophone. Do you play anything else?" Quatre asked as he poured the drink for Trowa.

"I started out playing the flute. I play some piano also," Trowa took the drink with a nod and sipped it easily. Quatre picked up his brandy glass and leaned back to get a good look at Trowa. Trowa was wearing a dark turtleneck sweater and a pair of tight jeans. He looked hot in the ensemble, and Quatre tried hard to keep from staring.

"A man of many talents then?" Quatre tossed the question out aware of the many ways it could be taken.

"Some would say so," Trowa replied glibly. Either the man caught the insinuation or he did not, it was hard to tell right now.

"Well, Trowa Barton, how long are you in town for?" Quatre asked as he wiped down the counter quickly, getting rid of the many condensation rings.

"Hard to tell. I love it here though," Trowa gestured with the hand not holding a drink to show that he meant everything around him.

"You like the club?" Quatre was very interested in what Trowa had to say about that.

"Well, I have played in nicer places. But I have also played in nastier places. This place is right in the middle. And let me say, the bartender pours a mean glass of bourbon," Trowa winked and tossed back the rest of the drink before he turned it upside down on the cocktail napkin and headed back to the small stage.

Quatre warmed all over at the compliment. He picked up the glass Trowa was using and watched a lone drop of bourbon sneak to the edge. As it was about to drop out he stuck out his pink tongue and lapped it off the glass. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Trowa watching him. Quatre shivered all over under his gaze, and decided the best course of action would be to turn away and check to see if the portly gibson drinking man was ready for him to call a cab.

"Hey sir, how would you like me to call you a cab?" Quatre asked the man who was now close to snoozing in his corn nuts.

"I duzznt need no cab," the man slurred.

"I'm sorry sir, but I can't let you walk out that door and drive like this. Let me call you a cab," Quatre smiled at the man and tried to catch his blurry eye.

"'Kay," the man mumbled.

Quatre called the cab company and started to take dishes back to the large sink in the back. It was less than thirty minutes until closing time when he was done.

Quatre had been watching this group jam all night, and he had only seen Trowa sing a couple of times. Trowa came up to the microphone again; this time he was singing a slow torch song that had been popular for many decades now.

"Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky. Stormy weather. Since my man and I ain't together, keeps rainin' all the time," Trowa sang, his voice soft and tender. Quatre could not help but watch. He also could not help but have a small shred of hope for the man, since he had left the lyrics the way Billie Holiday would have sang them. Trowa was not playing his saxophone for this number. He just held he microphone while sitting on a stool, and his eyes closed every once and a while as he lost himself in the old standard.

"Life is bare, gloom and mis'ry everywhere. Stormy weather.

Just can't get my poorself together, I'm weary all the time. So weary all the time. When he went away the blues walked in and met me. If he stays away old rockin' chair will get me," Trowa sat there and swayed in his seat as a piano solo took over, the elderly man played it with a passion Quatre frequently saw, the passion of a man who dedicated his life to playing the blues.

"All I do is pray the lord above will let me walk in the sun once more. Can't go on, ev'ry thing I had is gone. Stormy weather.

Since my man and I ain't together, keeps rainin' all the time," Trowa finished the lyrical part of the song and let the band play out the rest, ending with the soft sprinkle of sound created by jazz drum brushes meeting with the small snare drums. Trowa looked up at Quatre and their eyes locked. Quatre gave him a smile that had melted many a heart: one that was all at once cute and honest. Trowa gave him a smirk that looked more amused than cute.

Not too much later it was time to close, and the band was packing up. Some promised Quatre they would return the next night, even though Quatre had Mondays and Tuesdays off. He would never be sure that the musicians would be here when he came back to work, but he had gotten used to it. But as the last musician called out a farewell to Trowa, Quatre realized that the saxophonist was still there and obviously dawdling.

"Hey stranger, why are you still here?" Quatre asked curiously as he leaned against the wall near the stage.

"Hmm, I don't know. Maybe the sparkling conversation?" Trowa remarked as he used a chamois cloth to wipe out his horn.

Quatre laughed and pushed away from the wall. He headed back to the bar and began to screw on every lid to the open alcohol bottles. He wiped them down and put them in their proper place, and then took the bar tools to the back for Edward to wash in the morning. When he came back out to wipe down the bar and the tables, Trowa was sitting on the stage once again, this time with a flute in hand.

"Don't you have a girlfriend to go home to?" Quatre asked teasingly as he sprayed the bar and started to wipe it to a shine. It briefly occurred to him that he had said he was not going to do this. He should not be flirting and baiting this musician, but for some reason he could not stop it. It was something he found himself needing to do.

"No girlfriend," Trowa shrugged and put the flute to his lips. Softly blown notes wafted from the instrument, and Quatre found himself humming along with the Ravel tune he was playing.

"I thought you were a jazz musician?" Quatre asked as he moved onto the tables.

Trowa paused in his playing, "I am, most of the time. That doesn't mean that I can't know one or two beautiful classical tunes."

And with that, Trowa began to play a suite from another ballet. Quatre smiled and finished the quick work that would end his night. He went to the back and tossed the rag into a basket with some others and grabbed his jacket and keys.

"Well, Trowa Barton, it's time to lock up!" Quatre called out as he walked back to the front. Trowa seemed to be all packed up, so Quatre went to the door and opened it.

"Are you hungry?" Quatre asked as he walked down the street, and then mentally slapped himself.

"Yes," Trowa said gratefully.

And before Quatre could even give it a second thought he asked, "Do you want to go back to my place? I'm a pretty good cook."

What was he thinking asking something like that? It was almost like he was begging Trowa to come home and take him to bed. Quatre wanted to slap himself but knew that gesture would not help matters.

"Are you asking me to come home with you?" Trowa sounded like he was going to laugh.

"So what if I am?" Quatre was tired of dancing around it now. He was horny, and Trowa was hot. Quatre had not wanted someone this bad in quite some time. He noticed that Trowa was a few steps behind him. But then there was a sudden warmth against his back and he knew Trowa was right there, close enough to touch.

"If you are asking, I am saying yes," Trowa whispered in his ear, "Lead the way."

Quatre hailed a cab and told the driver to take them to the building that held his penthouse. He never liked this part of taking someone home with him. They always were amazed that he was so rich, and he never liked that. His money had come to him through his father's endeavors, not his own. It was pure circumstance that had landed him with the money he had. It was not like he wanted it in the first place. But having it meant that he could live someplace like his building, where he had a view of the bay and its surrounding cities.

When they stopped in front of his tall building Trowa grunted in mild surprise, "This is where you live?"

"Yes. Is it a problem?" Quatre started to get defensive.

"Not really. Nice building. Postmodern, right?" Trowa asked, looking at the cream colored exterior walls and numerous windows.

"Yes," Quatre confirmed, secretly pleased with Trowa's response. The doorman let them in, and they walked across the foyer and to the elevators.

"Good evening Mr. Winner!" the man at the desk called out. Quatre waved as the elevator doors closed. Quatre pressed the button for the top floor and briefly saw Trowa arch an eyebrow when he did.

"A bartender does not usually live in the penthouse of a large postmodern building in San Francisco," he commented as he leaned back against the wall.

"Do you really need to hear all the sordid details of how I became independently wealthy and why I still work as a bartender in a jazz joint?" Quatre asked sincerely.

"I don't need to hear; I want to hear," Trowa answered.

"My dad died a few years back. As the oldest son, I traditionally inherited everything. I gave up what money my sisters wanted, and decided to just keep the rest for some reason. I have never really thought to sit down and ask myself why. I work as a bartender because I like it a lot, I love jazz a lot, and because my friend Duo told me to do it," Quatre chuckled lightly as he said the last part.

"Do you always do what people tell you to do?" Trowa asked Quatre. The tone of his voice let Quatre know that he wasn't just talking about peer pressure.

Quatre had figured out back on the street that Trowa was interested, but now he was going to try and figure out just how interested Trowa was. He lowered his head slightly and looked at Trowa through his eyelashes, "Tell me to do something and see for yourself."

It was a challenge, and by the arch of his visible eyebrow, Trowa knew it. But it looked like he was choosing to ignore it for now. The elevator dinged and opened, letting them out at the top of the building. Quatre unlocked the deadbolt and then pressed the code into the security system.

"Entré, faites-vous à la maison," Quatre said, hoping he got the French right.

"Merci," Trowa replied.

"Sorry, do you speak French?" Quatre asked as they entered the suite.

"A little. I speak a smattering of a lot of languages. I travel a lot," Trowa said as he looked around.

The place was well appointed, rich in what Trowa could only describe as a fusion of English and Indian décor. The walls in this great room were all shade of burgundy, with cream-colored ceilings and crown molding. The floors were made of hardwood.

"What kind of wood is the floor?" he found himself asking.

"Teak," Quatre replied.

The throw rugs were obviously Indian influenced, rich in color and texture. There were works of art here and there, and knick-knacks that Quatre obviously had put there himself. The furniture was almost all chocolate brown leather, with teak wood accents that matched the floor.

"Coffee?" Quatre asked, a little nervous under the scrutiny of his home. Trowa shook his head and moved towards Quatre. Quatre looked into the green eye that was visible and stood his ground. When Trowa was right in front of him Quatre opened his mouth again.

"Hey Trowa, you've got dirty in your eye," he whispered.

"Or dirty on my mind," Trowa answered.

"Same thing."

And endless moment hung there, where they were stuck in that precarious place between falling towards or pushing away; an endless second between the decision to kiss or not to kiss. That moment of insanity that happens every once and a while when you know there is no going back if you pass that. Particular. Point.

It did not even register that Trowa's lips were on his at first. Quatre took a second to realize what was happening, and then he was eager to respond. Damn the rule about mixing business with pleasure, he knew what he was getting into when he invited Trowa here. They had been playing at this all night, and now he was done with the game. Trowa was hot, available, and interested. Quatre opened his mouth and lost himself in the taste of Trowa's mouth. He tasted the alcohol he had drunk and the food he had probably eaten earlier in the evening. It didn't matter. Trowa was intoxicating, smelling of alcohol and smoke from the other musicians. His tongue felt like velvet, and his lips were soft and supple. Quatre threw himself into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Trowa's neck and pressing hard into him.

Trowa grabbed Quatre' shirt in his fists and held the blond close. He pressed Quatre against a counter and wedged a thigh between his legs. Quatre groaned and moved against Trowa's thigh, relieving some of the tension that was coming from his dick.

"Bedroom," Quatre gasped, "that way."

Trowa slid his hands down until he was cupping Quatre's ass. Quatre moaned as Trowa picked him up. Quatre wrapped his legs around Trowa's waist and started towards the vague direction Quatre had pointed.

The first door was a linen closet. Quatre laughed and pointed at the correct door.

The bedroom was all creams and navy blues. The carpet in here was a dove gray and so soft to the touch. Trowa did not bother with the light as he threw Quatre on the bed. He did not even ask before climbing on top of the bed and Quatre. Not that Quatre was protesting. Not one bit.

"Stuff in drawer," Quatre panted as Trowa continued to kiss him. When Trowa left him for a moment to retrieve the stuff, Quatre shucked off his shirt and toed off his shoes and socks.

"Quick work," Trowa commented, eyeing Quatre's bare chest, with slightly tanned nipples.

"I'll make quick work of you," Quatre growled. Trowa tossed the condom and lube onto the bed, and Quatre reached for his clothing. Quatre did make quick work of him, and they were both nude and staring within a mere minute.

"You are so beautiful," Trowa murmured as he climbed onto the bed again. The thick comforter sank a little as he kneeled. Quatre was on his knees too, and situated himself so he faced Trowa.

"Would you believe that I think you are even more beautiful?" Quatre asked in mock disbelief. Trowa chuckled and kissed Quatre once more.

Quatre was convinced at this point that he had fallen asleep at work and was now dreaming this whole scenario. Quatre let himself be gently pushed down onto the bed, Trowa's weight welcome on top of him as the taller man relaxed into their kiss, almost seeming to melt into it. Quatre knew he was melting, and the result was almost a mindless puddle of Quatre-goo.

All of a sudden Trowa broke the kiss and chuckled. Quatre drew his eyebrows together into an almost-scowl.

"What?" Quatre asked, irritated.

"Did you know, kitten, that you were purring?" Trowa asked as he ducked his head down to suck on Quatre's bared neck. Quatre moaned with pleasure, and buried his hands in Trowa's cinnamon-toned hair.

"God, no, I didn't!"

Trowa continued to suckled and nibble on the soft skin of Quatre's neck and ears, nipping his way down until he could softly lave the hollow of Quatre's throat with his tongue. Quatre had started to purr again, and he wasn't even aware of it. Trowa found it irresistible.

Quatre was lost in the feeling Trowa was evoking in him until Trowa took one of his nipples into his mouth. Trowa circled the nub with his soft tongue, and then flicked it against the nipple repeatedly. When he sucked it into his mouth and then began to nibble it, Quatre nearly shouted.

"God! That's so good!" Quatre was getting close to the point of begging. Trowa wedged his thigh in between Quatre's, and then applied enough pressure so that Quatre knew to spread his legs. Trowa switched nipples as he settle between Quatre's legs, and then they both collectively gasped as their cocks brushed against each other. Trowa settled down there, and started a soft and slow thrusting motion, effectively dry-humping Quatre to relieve some of the pressure for both parties.

"Trowa, please!" Quatre now knew he could beg for this, would beg for this. He had no choice. He tingled all over, and the need for release was taking hold almost completely. Trowa seemed to understand though, because he grabbed the condom and ripped open the package. He unrolled the condom slowly, and then spread some of the clear gel onto his fingers. Quatre pulled his knees back, baring himself for the preparation.

The pinky went in first, easily. Soon, Trowa added the ring finger. Next, he took out the two smaller fingers and replaced it with the index finger. Then the middle finger was added and Quatre was being slowly and softly stretched. When Trowa added the ring finger that made three fingers that moved easily in and out of Quatre's now-slicked ass.

"Now! Please!" Quatre had never felt so ready for this.

"Shh, corazon," Trowa was slicking his shaft with the gel, lubing the condom completely. He held the member steady and then pushed in with deliberate tenderness. Quatre hissed and gasped as he was filled. It felt good, every inch of it felt so damned good.

"Oh, Quatre!" Trowa almost groaned as he started to move, taking the blonde along for the ride. Thrusts were met, tongues dueled, and fires were stoked higher and higher as the two moved together. Trowa felt the velvet of Quatre's inner walls, and Quatre felt the steel of Trowa's cock. They moved furiously with each other, and then Trowa wrapped his hand around Quatre'e erection, pumping in time with his thrusts. Quatre did not take long to spill out his seed, and that one sight proved to be Trowa's undoing. He jerked as his orgasm hit, pounding into Quatre mercilessly as the condom filled with his hot essence. As he shook and took ragged breaths Quatre lazily closed his eyes, completely satisfied.

Trowa felt himself collapse half on top of Quatre, exhausted not only from the mind-blowing sex, but also from the day's total events. Quatre let him stay there until the weight became too much, and then he gently aided Trowa in lying down next to him. Trowa lie there on his back, still taking much needed deep breaths.

"I'm going to go get a cloth," Quatre murmured. He got up slowly and made his way to the bathroom. When he came back he held a damp hand towel. He wiped off his stomach and hands before kneeling next to Trowa on the bed and wiping him down as well. With a well-placed aim the hand towel ended up in the basket Quatre's dirty clothing usually ended up in. Quatre smiled at Trowa, who was lying still with heavy lids and a glowing face.

"Come here, muchacho hermoso," Trowa said softly, with delicate and affectionate inflection. Quatre did as he was told, lying down with Trowa and wrapping himself around the green-eyed man. He briefly sat up just enough to pull the sheets and blankets over them, and then he settled back down next to Trowa.

"That was…" Quatre was at a loss for words. Trowa kissed his head and stroked his blond hair.

"It was amazing, beautiful, gorgeous," Trowa whispered. Quatre moved slightly so he could look at Trowa.

"You're amazing, beautiful, and gorgeous," Quatre grinned a silly grin, and Trowa laughed lightly.

"Stop, no, please. You're making me blush," Trowa said with mock sincerity. Quatre snickered and settled back down into Trowa's embrace.

"I don't know about you, but I am exhausted," Quatre yawned and closed his eyes, "Sweet dreams, Trowa."

"Good night Quatre," Trowa closed his eyes and he was soon asleep, breathing deeply and evenly.

Quatre's eyes were closed, but he was not asleep. His mind was concentrated on one thing only: what would happen when the sun came up?

This was the danger of taking someone home. You take them home, you have wonderful sex, and then, in the morning you are always confused as to where you stand. It could be an especially difficult situation when the gorgeous man in your bed is a traveling musician. Like Quatre had thought before on this night, he knew what he was getting into. In the morning Trowa may leave. He may never see him again. And as much as that thought genuinely bothered him, he knew there was nothing he could really do. If Trowa did not feel the same way Quatre did about the situation, there was really nothing the blond could do except live with his decision. Some battles were worth fighting, but who could fight this kind of battle based on one night of pleasure?

&&&

Morning always comes with harsh realizations that usually do not present themselves during the twilight hours. What may have seemed insignificant while the moon was high in the sky can seem of the utmost importance when the sun rises. Such was the situation of Quatre Winner when he awoke in his bed, empty of anyone but him. Quatre blinked roughly. He knew he would wake up alone, so the emotion of sadness that he felt was not something he expected. Trowa had not been gone too long, because his spot on the bed was still a little warm. Quatre would normally turn over and go back to sleep since it was his day off, but he found himself not wanting to lie in the bed any longer. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and winced slightly. Trowa may have been infinitely gentle, but getting pounded into the mattress like that was bound to leave anyone a little sore. His eyes took a little time to focus completely before he realized that there was a scrap of paper on his nightstand. He picked it up and read it:

_Quatre, last night was wonderful. I'm sorry, but I did not want to wake you._

"Typical. No contact information, he didn't even sign it with his name," Quatre tossed the note into the air and then rose from the bed. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt before heading into the kitchen. Coffee was definitely in order. Then he would see about trying not to mope about all day.

While the coffee was brewing Quatre strummed his fingers on his countertop. Last night he had decided that he would not fight for someone based on one night of pleasure. But every time he remembered Trowa's expression as he had climaxed, or remembered the scent of Trowa's skin he honestly regretted ever thinking that thought. Maybe some things were worth fighting for. Maybe Trowa was worth fighting for. He had known Trowa for less than twenty-four hours, and yet Quatre realized that just this morning he had called the other side of his bed 'Trowa's side of the bed'. How quickly can someone accidentally be assimilated into your life? Quatre now knew, and the thought brought along with it a gamut of emotions that he had not had to deal with in years.

The day went by as Quatre's usual day off went, save the regret growing in his heart and the doubts flooding his head. When the evening came, Quatre ordered Indian take-out and sat in front of the television, barely watching the screen.

Maybe he needed to find something else to do. He didn't know if he could handle it if Trowa came back to the club one day. What was he supposed to do, pretend as if they never had seen each other before? Would it be awkward? As much as he loved the little club, could he find good work that he would like just as much elsewhere?

Quatre started yawning at midnight and decided to take a shower before bed. When he got out of the shower he brushed his teeth and went to bed, falling into troubled sleep. In his dreams he heard a doorbell, and then woke suddenly.

It was the doorbell. His doorbell was ringing at three in the morning. Quatre rose from the bed and pulled on his jeans before walking to the door.

"Who the hell is ringing my doorbell at three in the morning?" he grumbled sleepily as he swung the door open. He swung the door open to see Trowa standing there, looking like a drowned rat.

"You look like a drowned rat," Quatre commented.

"Can I come in?" Trowa asked. Quatre held the door open to let Trowa in, and then closed it behind them.

"Look, if you are looking to get some goodbye nookie before you leave our fair city I'm not offering. I don't like waking up to an empty bed," Quatre snapped before going to get Trowa a towel.

"Quatre, I'm not looking for goodbye nookie. I came to tell you something."

Quatre crossed his arms on his chest, "Okay."

"Do you know that your club is dreadfully boring without you around?" Trowa asked, drying his hair and face off.

"No, I don't. I don't go in there unless I am working," Quatre moved towards the coffee maker and reached for the crock of grounds that he kept next to it.

"Do you know that life in general was kind of boring until I met you last night?" Trowa threw the towel down on the dining room table and moved towards Quatre and the smell of coffee.

"Do you know that a note is a poor substitute for waking up alone when you felt a connection with the person you screwed the night before?" Quatre was not about to give in.

"Do you know that I left so that I could make arrangements to stay in this city, to stay near you?"

Well now, that changed everything.

"What?" Quatre's mind was reeling. A traveling musician that wanted to stay in one place? It was inconceivable. Quatre felt Trowa approach him from behind, and then Quatre felt an arm snake around his waist. Trowa's mouth was next to his ear, breathing hotly on the sensitive skin.

"I don't screw someone and just leave like that. I'm not like that. I felt something when I saw you last night, and that feeling only grew as the night went on. You positively shine Quatre, and I hope that maybe some of that light can rub off on me. Last night I told you I loved it here, and I meant it. I love the club, the city, the bay…but I also felt that the biggest reason to stay was you. You're like some kind of angel Quatre. Some kind of perfect angel. When I was in you, when I was moving in you, I saw it then too. And I want more. I want to explore it all, see where it takes us. I want to see what you will bring to my life. I want to share it all with you. I'm not asking that you love me. Hell, I don't know if I'm in love with you; but I am willing to risk finding out what this is between us. Please Quatre, tell me you want to risk it too," Trowa turned Quatre around to face him, and Quatre felt all his walls drop when he looked into Trowa's eyes.

"If there is one thing I learned over night it's this: some things, no matter how briefly they have touched your life, are worth fighting for. I'm willing to fight for it if you are," Quatre tried a smile, and found that it came readily.

"And this time, I promise I will be there in the morning," Trowa joked as he let Quatre pour him a cup of coffee.

When Quatre woke up the next morning Trowa was still there. After that morning he never really left ever again.

How quickly can someone insinuate themselves into your life? Quatre and Trowa now knew, and the future did not seem as bleak as it used to. As a matter of fact, everything seemed maybe even a little brighter, a little lighter, and a little better over all.

- The End -


End file.
